Page 3 of A Mate for Christmas

“Couldn’t hurt,” Devon says and shrugs.

“I’ll think about it,” I say over my shoulder. I head out the door, but I know the moment I have some spare time I will be signing up. As Devon pointed out, I need to get laid. Properly.

“See you tomorrow!” Devon calls but I am already out the door and walking as fast as these deep blue stilettos will carry me. Time to get to work.

****

Carter Lawson

Sitting behind the large mahogany desk in my office on the top floor of Titan Industries, I flip through my emails, my mood sour. I haven’t had sex in three months and the lack of decent orgasms tends to make me moody. And my hand in the privacy of my shower hasn’t been cutting it since the first week.

The last woman I had in my bed wanted me to marry her a month later. Fucking gold digger. Came over claiming to be pregnant with my child but I knew that wasn’t possible.

You see, tiger shifters have a beautiful safety feature built into our DNA. I can only procreate with someone who has the same genetic markers I do. That keeps us from crossbreeding and creating God knows what. Isn’t nature wonderful?

Besides, she was a human. Not that I have anything against humans—they just have limitations that shifters don’t. But she is definitely the last human I will be taking to my bed. They are much too fragile and have too many limitations for the things I enjoy.

Women look at me and see a virile man with lots of money and they want part of that for themselves. No one ever looks beyond the thousand-dollar suit or expensive dinners to see the man, or the tiger, beneath. And I am so fucking tired of it.

I want more from life.

I’m thirty-five, for Christ’s sake. I want to find a good woman that wants to settle down and maybe even have a cub or two, but it doesn’t seem like that is in the cards for me. Instead, I’ve settled for the shallow dating pool of shifters here in Hawaii.

Closing my emails, I pull up my profile on Love n Shenanigans and check if there are any matches to suit my criteria. I check my profile every day and find myself disappointed every single time.

A knock sounds at my door and I slam the laptop shut. I don’t know what the hell I am trying to hide or why I would feel guilty for being on a dating site but that is a question for another day.

“What?” I call loudly.

My frustration with everything else in my life is bleeding through to my business.

The door opens and my accounts manager enters. I have no fondness for the overweight, bald man but he is good at his job, so I keep my features neutral.

“How can I help you, Mr. Horton?”

I have never addressed him or any other employee by their first name. It gives a sense that we are equal, and we aren’t. I am his boss.

Yes. I am an asshole.

No. I don’t give a shit about anyone’s opinion of me.

“I’m sorry to bother you with something this trivial,” he starts with the ass-kissing, and I cut him off.

“Get to the point.” I want to get him out of my office as quickly as possible.

“I need a new assistant.”

“What’s wrong with yours?”

This is something he could have easily handled with Human Resources, and I feel my disdain rise at being bothered with this kind of bullshit. He blushes beet red from the collar of his shirt to the shiny bald spot on his head.

“Um…”

“Spit it out. Or keep the assistant,” I bark making him jump.

“She’s too … sexy.”

That has my attention. None of my employees are hired based on their looks but at the end of the day, a bunch of number-crunching accountants are rarely the most attractive people. We all spend inordinate amounts of time sitting in chairs facing screens. And very few do anything to keep active or take care of themselves.

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